


Stress of Command

by OsmiumAnon



Category: Warhammer - All Media Types, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Semi-Public Sex, Stress Relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:08:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23130709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OsmiumAnon/pseuds/OsmiumAnon
Summary: Cato Sicarius swings by to chat with ole Bobby G about some shit. He sees Roboute is stressed and under a lot of pressure.WHATEVER WILL HAPPEN NEXTProbably not what you expect
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34





	Stress of Command

His lord was seated behind a broad desk, the surface of which was utterly obscured by dataslates, hard-copies and flickering palm-sized hololiths. Cato Sicarius made the sign of the aquila, standing stiff, and inclined his head. Roboute Guilliman, Lord Commander, Master of Ultramar, glanced up. The Primarch wore only an unadorned toga of rare silk, clasped with a white-gold Ultima. Out of his armor, he lacked none of the physicality and presence Sicarius knew well.

‘Thank you, Captain Sicarius.’ His liege had…seen better days. He did not look comfortable behind the desk, though Sicarius knew as well as any that his genesire’s mind was no less adept at such matters as grand strategy and logistics as at battle and martial glory. He had seen Lord Guilliman order an entire void-battle against the Archenemy without blinking, remembering the location and disposition of even the meanest of gunboats. The transfer of power during the Siege of Magna Macragge Civitas was already legendary, whispered to no doubt be an essential component in strategic education in the Adeptus Astartes and Astra Militarum alike.

But there was something about seeing so sublime, so perfected a being as a Primarch seated as like some scriptorium menial that struck Sicarius as wrong. Cynically, he supposed that in these cursed years, nothing was ever as it ‘ought’ be. It seemed to some degree his Primarch perhaps agreed, as Sicarius noticed a recurring tic in his cheek, subtle, but there for those with the eyes to see. Just a twitch of muscle, taut and loose, taut and loose as his Lord shuffled dataslates around.

‘I made a joke,’ Roboute said idly, and Sicarius remained silent. He wasn’t sure how to respond. ‘About flimsy. You’ll note there are very few scraps of paper before me now.’

Sicarius cleared his throat.

‘Ah.’

‘So I have you to thank for this? Ever since then, I have received reports almost entirely on dataslates or in plastek binders.’ Unsure if this was a positive or not, Sicarius merely nodded. Roboute laughed, though it was restrained with an edge of tension.

‘Relax, Captain, it is not a reprimand. Even if I find I now find I can remove the armor for stretches, I appreciate the attention to detail.’

‘I am Ultramarine,’ Sicarius said automatically, still wrongfooted.

‘Quite right. I understand that circumstances have been difficult since the opening of the Maledictum.’ Roboute paused, and Cato heard him take a deeper breath. ‘For everyone. The Imperium itself. This universe always sees fit to test us, to push us to the very edge-‘ The tic in Roboute’s cheek redoubled, and Sicarius thought he saw fingers clench tighter about a dataslate for a moment, then relax.

‘But that is why we fight, is it not, Captain?’ Realizing the question wasn’t rhetorical, Sicarius nodded.

‘It is, sire. To serve is to honor the Emperor.’

‘More than that. Nothing so cold. Why do you serve?’

Sicarius took a moment, letting his eyes wander across the jumbled desk as he gathered his thoughts. Why did he, Cato Sicarius, serve? The answer had been easy once. Simple. Ridiculously simple. He served because it was his pleasure to do so. It had been the purpose of his entire life, from his youngest memories pre-remaking. He’d served because it was right to do so, because it made him proud, because he knew he was the best at it. Now? He pressed down memories of blood-slicked corridors, the shouts of dying men – his men. The endless, endless night that proved how futile purpose could be.

Perhaps his lord sensed that. Sensed the hollowness that replaced pride, the mechanical rote that superseded duty.

In a strange way, as Cato saw the tension and stress lines in his Primarch’s face, the barely contained grimace as he bore too many weights and responsibilities for even so strong a back, he wondered if, perhaps, it was not so arrogant to think that his lord saw a parallel. A similarity.

After all, had he not awoken into a galaxy that, by his own words, was the opposite of so much he had fought and bled for? A galaxy where his Father was worshipped, his own brothers vanished, leaving him as the lone bearer of the torch for an Imperium of traumatized, desperate humans? Where was the pride in that, the passion of duty? How trapped must his father feel, now, hemmed in and without any respite?

Roboute cleared his throat, shifting minutely in his chair, rustling his toga. Cato heard a low thump as Roboute’s knee must have struck the underside of the table.

‘I serve because I must,’ Sicarius admitted, ‘I serve because there is no other choice. Can I pass of responsibility to another? Who? And what right do I have to shirk?’ Roboute seemed to weigh this, rolling his head not quite in a nod, nor a rejection.

‘A fair enough answer, though one I’m sure would surprise your fellow Captains. But an honest one and I value that.’ The Primarch tapped idly against a deactivated screen with two fingers, a tap-two, tap-two, tap-two beat. ‘In your absence-‘ -inwardly, Sicarius growled at the euphemism – ‘there have been changes. Second Company is under new command, but I do not wish to waste you. You have a grand record, I’ve read, Captain. I should like you to remain with me as the Crusade advances.’

His father’s face was inscrutable. Sicarius searched for any hint of deeper meaning – did his sire mistrust him for his handling of _Fleet Avenger_? Did he suspect Sicarius inches from another bungling and wished to keep a failure close at hand? Guilliman gave nothing away.

‘I would be…honored.’

‘This is not a punishment, Captain. You did admirably to return to Macragge.’ The Primarch folded his hands together, fingers interlaced. ‘This is about where you might serve best. I have need of officers like you, now more than ever.’ Sicarius noticed the faintest whitening of knuckles where his father’s fingers interlocked, the clench of muscle at the primarch’s jaw. This was Roboute Guilliman taking a chance on him. Sicarius made the sign of the Aquila, and bowed.

‘I will not disappoint.’

‘Of course not, Captain. Thank you.’

After the door slid smoothly shut and before the low boom of ancient wood on metal framing faded, Roboute blew out a veritable gale of air from his deep chest, slamming both hands down flat on the desk, hard enough to make the dataslates jump.

From under the desk drifted a throaty chuckle. Wet noises followed that both repulsed and enraptured him.

‘All of the profanity in this grim age is based around my Father, it seems, and He is the _last_ I would wish to invoke in a time such as this.’ A memory came to him, bringing with it a half-grin and he swore with borrowed words.

‘Skitja! I should not have divested my armor.’

From under his desk flowed Yvraine, clad only in her formfitting black wych-suit, eyes hooded in a face shining with fluid. Her topknot lay unbound, waves of silken silver hair cascading over appealingly toned shoulders. Her delicate hand slid his softening cock, still slick with her saliva, back into his toga as she rested elbows on his hips, looking up at him. The heat of her body between his legs, the softness of her breast as it pressed against his thigh – even having just spent, he was amazed to feel himself still respond to the xeno.

‘Is that so? What a shame it would have been, Roboute. I admire your restraint. I do not believe your Captain suspected a thing.’

No, indeed. It had taken every ounce of his will to remain still as Yvraine worked: to move not an inch as, somehow, the Eldar had managed to silently swallow him down, over and over. When her fingers had found his testicles, when her tongue lapped about the tip of penis, when her lips kissed against his pelvis – rarely had he experienced such a thorough test of his superhuman willpower. Though, he considered, the possibility of Roboute Guilliman sitting at his desk with his manhood buried to the hilt in the throat of an alien was perhaps the second-to-last most improbable occurrence in the galaxy, next to the gods of Chaos hand-delivering an apology letter and a promise to reform.

Roboute glanced back at the scattered reports. He had deployment strategies to review, submitted by a half dozen Lords Militant with supporting assessments from newly-minted Primaris companies. At least another hour, then, before he would be overdue to speak with the Master of Astropathy. The Maledictum continued to wreak havoc on any semblance of communication though strangled and half-heard cries still filtered in from across the Imperium.

Forty minutes, he decided, and looked down at Yvraine. As if reading his mind, her lips curved in a knowing smirk, eyes sparkling.

He merely raised an eyebrow.

‘I am not yet done.’

This time she made no attempt at silence and Roboute found that, with but one hand, he could still quite adeptly handle notation.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey this is an old fic of mine I'd only posted on pastebin but I figured I'd throw it up here because why not and also because I haven't updated Behind the Mask in ages.  
> Haha I was tricky see with the tags gottem


End file.
